Guest post by Kristin: apples in my garden

Hi, I am Kristin at Krickelin and I am

 guest blogging here today.

I usually write about pink flowers, messy thoughts,

tangled braided hair and nude bathing in the ocean.

But, let me put these things aside

and welcome september and  the autumn.

Let me tell you about the small apple tree 

outside my kitchen window.

Bugs are eating on the apples

so that my kids refuse to take them to school.

But I use them.

A lot.

Apple pie with vanilla ice cream.

Apple kisses.

Apple games in the garden.

Grilled apples with cinnamon.

Apple martini with my love.

I wish you a wonderful autumn.

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guest post by cloud gatherer hold me down

 

beneath this cloudless sky there is nowhere to hide. the epitome of naked. motives are questioned. their magnitude in relation to hearts. i trace the constellations in and beyond my own flight path and wear the contradictions like a second skin. i can teach you to read these maps; to listen to the gentle thundering beneath your bones and the way the hallowed ground sings and screams that love is the opposite of gravity. and i'll dance in your palm when the moon is on fire warning of battles to come, where worlds are tasted on blood stained teeth and the road of our spines all cracked and worn leads back to where it all started. but let me ask you, if i were to say "sacrifice is love made holy", with what would you reply? and would i even understand? reading the pattern of your words, peeling them back until red turns gold and drips and i start to wonder for how long have you been wielding lightning bolts from your palms? and what of these invisible walls? are we not gods? come closer...

the morning is tinged with blue. im exhaling warm clouds and coming to the realisation that this body isnt big enough for me to scratch the names of all i love. i'm moving onto the walls. the already written pages. making new maps. searching for the life behind eyes. even those whose smiles cannot disguise their disenchantment. i worship the god in you. all of you. in me. in the books and the trees and earth and i eat all the rainbows. the strings of words one pearl at a time. until what? until i reach the hearts and mouths from whence they came. and then? nothing and everything. only the knowledge that my desire continues to expand until i can no longer touch the edges. and you. carved in stone made flesh forever standing in the centre of the storm. so do it just because. because of the flower in my hair. the silver wing around my neck. because the blue changes shade dependent on her mood. because the wind blows through the house and rattles all the windows. because we are all corners and curves. not one or the other. but both. or none. do it mouth to mouth and break the skin. do it because im cannibalistic in my desire for offerings of blood and guts. deeper than transparent things like raindrops and tears. because there are only so many times you will see the moon full. do it only completely when you feel it pressed hard against your edges. a haunting or possession tightly held by ghostly hands. do it because to not is to lose it. because i want to see my fingerprints everywhere...

sitting by midnight lakes reflecting stars below and above it becomes impossible to tell which way is up. once during a long lost night i heard the wind, at least i think it was the wind, whisper my name. and not even this name, but rather my real name. i am a journey. a story. a circle. an ouroboros. harmony of asymmetry. so old i am unable to tell you where i begin. contemplating cosmogony provokes the longing to remember all of our explosions. reciting stories locked in scars and chests where only angels dare to tread. both archer and prey. i pray. i know not to whom, but i say thank you. alot. grateful for having nothing and everything to learn. and LIFE. in which to leave my map. my mark. my trail of meandering dirty footprints. i was here.

words by cloud gatherer hold me down

art work "second skin" by julie massy

 

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guest post by e/lady oracle

The thread

She couldn’t remember when she had first spotted the thread or how it got there. It was red and very thin. Wound tightly around the stone she still wore on her finger. It hadn’t been there early in the morning. She had taken off her ring so she could wash him. Even though everyone had advised against it, she had insisted on doing it herself. Somehow, her hands had managed to soap themselves and carefully she had let them glide over his body. It had been cold and still and strangely dense. When she reached his face she had heard a sound escape her throat. Strangled. Muffled, as if belonging to someone else, far away. His hands had been the most difficult. They had reminded her of the moments he had placed them on the small of her back, making her feel like a three-year-old and a desirable woman at the same time. And then, the undertakers had come to take him away. All that was left was the kitchen table and the chair on which she sat. The light on the kitchen table had shifted, inch by inch. A fruit fly hovered over the apricot in the blue bowl. Slowly, she started unwinding the thread from her ring. With it, something inside her loosened. She tried to push against it. Put it back in its trembling, fleshy cover and stitch it shut. She got up from her chair and walked towards her sewing kit.

by
E. A.
4.11.2011


image by Belgian artist Ronal Ceuppens
found via

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